


like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass

by contradictory_existence



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Is A Pine Tree In Sunglasses, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contradictory_existence/pseuds/contradictory_existence
Summary: After the world doesn’t end, they travel. It’s an urge to know, Crowley thinks, to relearn what they were so close to losing. To see if it was all worth it. (It is, of course it is. It always has been.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 214





	like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass

**Author's Note:**

> title from “wasteland, baby!” by hozier

After the world doesn’t end, they travel. It’s an urge to know, Crowley thinks, to relearn what they were so close to losing. To see if it was all worth it. (It is, of course it is. It always has been.)

“What do you say we get out of here?” Crowley says, that night in his flat. It’s dark save for the light coming in from the street below, casting their faces in odd shadows and bringing out the things they can’t say when morning comes. As he tosses out the question, he realizes he’s only half joking.

Aziraphale smiles and looks down into his glass. “I think I’d like that very much,” he says. His eyelashes cast faint shadows on his face, delicate like candy floss, like spider’s silk, and Crowley’s heart thuds loud in his chest. _Is this it,_ he thinks, _is this me asking and him saying yes? Is this us on our own side?_

“But we have to figure this out first,” Aziraphale says, and it sounds like breaking. The scrap of paper sits on the table, Agnes’s prophecy staring unflinchingly back at them. “We’ll have all the time in the world after.”

“Alright, angel. After.” Crowley drinks, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. He knows without looking that it is unbearably soft, so he can’t look, can’t see what unsaid emotions the angel’s face reveals. Not when they’re on the edge of destruction.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, verging on pleading, and Crowley knows how that sentence could end. He knows, because he’s played it out in his head a thousand times over. The stage is set now, can you see it? Places called and curtains drawn. Are you ready for what happens next?

“Don’t say it,” Crowley whispers, “not now.” _Better not._

Aziraphale nods slowly, silently, and Crowley finishes off his whiskey.

When he goes to bed, he pretends not to feel Aziraphale’s eyes following him down the hall.

…

_It’s London, and it’s 1601, and they’re standing next to each other in the Globe Theatre, and they are not friends._

_We don’t even know each other, Crowley reminds himself as he walks away. It’s just quid pro quo, part of the arrangement, not a big deal._

_Only when he comes back in a week’s time, it turns out to be a very, very big deal indeed. Jesus_ fuck, _he really gave himself away, didn’t he. Might as well have poured his soul out, made a confession in the rain, pointed out where_ Aziraphale _is written in ink on every nook and cranny of his heart._

_They find each other after the performance, not coordinated, just… coincidence. The two of them, standing still as the crowd flows around them._

_“That was,” Aziraphale begins, slightly out of breath, “miraculous.”_

_“Nothing much,” Crowley tells him (tells himself). “I assume you’re pleased with the results?”_

_“It was brilliant,” Aziraphale says, eyes shining, “with the skull, and his father, and Ophelia, oh! And that last bit where Hamlet dies in Horatio’s arms—incredibly moving, I thought. How about you?”_

_Crowley looks away. “You know me, angel, I don’t like the tragedies.”_

_“Right, of course.” Aziraphale nods, lost in thought, and then brightens. “I hear they’re planning to do another production of_ Much Ado About Nothing, _you liked that one so. We could go, if you want.”_

_Crowley swallows. Feels the words unspoken scratch against his throat like the point of a quill on parchment. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”_

…

It’s quite simple in the end. They swap bodies, outwit their respective head offices, and still make it in time for lunch at the Ritz. The bookshop is back in place, the Bentley is unburned—all well and good.

But it’s not the end, not really. Crowley’s restless, thrumming with residual anxiety (they haven’t talked about that night). He paces around his flat, stalks the streets of London at odd hours, and drives excessively fast, even by his standards. Yelling at his plants doesn’t help either.

“Maybe it’s time you tried actually gardening instead of shouting at the poor things,” Aziraphale suggests mildly.

Crowley scowls. “Shows what you know. I have no idea why the Dowlings even hired you.”

“It’s ineffable, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, primly taking a sip of his tea. “Anyway, have you considered going somewhere else? I’ve been feeling a tad fidgety myself. I think the change in scenery could do us some good.”

Crowley blanks. “Us. Together.”

Aziraphale looks at him as if he’s being deliberately obtuse. “Yes. You suggested it earlier, and it might be nice, seeing the world after so long in London. A vacation of sorts.” Aziraphale hesitates. “Only if you want to though.”

Crowley rolls his eyes—not that he’s actually annoyed, just for appearances’ sake. “Yeah, ‘course I’ll go, angel.”

“Excellent,” Aziraphale says, beaming and wiggling with excitement in his seat. “Where should we go first?”

Crowley shrugs. “Take your pick, I’ll drive. Anywhere you want to go,” he says, and means it.

Aziraphale freezes for a second, then nods. “Alright,” he says, “what do you think about Paris?”

…

It’s going to be fine, Crowley tells himself. He’s a demon, the first tempter no less, and he’s spent millenia dealing with all sorts of inconvenient emotions. It’s going to be fine.

It is not fine. Nothing in all the time he’s spent on earth could have prepared him for this. Even being godfather to Warlock Dowling, as botched as it was— _we should probably apologize to that boy,_ Crowley thinks, _really fucked up his childhood_ —was never like this.

This being, driving the Bentley from London to Paris with Aziraphale in the passenger seat. Or, more specifically: Aziraphale, looking through his CD collection for something that hasn’t turned into Queen; Aziraphale, putting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder to point out some especially thrilling bit of English countryside; Aziraphale, prattling on about books and crêpes and how abhorrent the word _chunnel_ is.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even hate it. He’s laughing and trying to hide it behind his sunglasses (and failing spectacularly, although he won’t admit it), and teasing Aziraphale with such golden remarks as “Did you know, I came up with the word for Brexit? Absolutely ingenious.”

Next to him, Aziraphale waves his hands about as he rambles, lost in a one-person discussion about the preservation of language. Somewhere in his reverie, he decides to rest his hand on Crowley’s knee and then forgets to remove it. Crowley very conveniently stops breathing, his heart beating ninety miles an hour. Is this what Aziraphale feels when he barrels down the streets of central London, this strange combination of alarm and exhilaration? _Should he step on the brakes?_

“—and it’s terribly hard to keep up with language nowadays, although I do appreciate how it keeps evolving. Nothing stays the same forever, does it? Well,” Aziraphale laughs lightly, “except for us.”

Crowley nods, dazed. If he eases up a bit on the accelerator, it’s only because discorporation would be particularly inconvenient at the moment.

…

_It’s London, and it’s 1862, and the less said about that the better._

…

In Paris, they wander through the city, reminiscing about old sights and pointing out new ones. It’s changed since the last time Crowley was here, of course it has. The buildings are taller, the streets wider, and the people less (outwardly) inclined to chopping off heads. _It’s still Paris,_ he reminds himself.

Some things, on the other hand, never change. Aziraphale still stumbles his way through French, eager to please, and Crowley still saves them from the awkwardness of the situation by interjecting in English, paying for their things, and herding the angel out of the patisserie.

“Thank you for that, Anthony,” Aziraphale says as they leave, and Crowley is so shocked that he almosts lets go of the door, which would have been very unfortunate for the people behind them.

Once he catches up, Aziraphale has already started on the sweets they bought, munching delicately at a raspberry macaron. At a loss for words, Crowley jerks his head back in the direction they came with some level of bewilderment.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, blushing as pink as the macaron, “I thought it might be odd if I only referred to you by your surname.”

“Plenty of people go by their surnames,” Crowley points out.

“Yes, but I must admit Anthony has grown on me. It’s very human, and we’re on their side now, aren’t we? And Anthony is a very nice name.” Aziraphale turns worried. “Unless you don’t like it?”

Crowley shakes his head a little too quickly. “Didn’t say that, angel. Just a bit surprised is all. I’ll get used to it.”

Aziraphale beams. “Well then, try a macaron now, would you, Anthony? They’re simply exquisite.”

Crowley only chokes a little bit this time, and takes the macaron.

…

That evening, they sit by the Seine, looking out across the river. The city sprawls out before them, a scroll unfurled, and the reflection of streetlamps flickers over the water’s surface like candlelight. It makes the whole thing softer, blurrier, like they’ve been washed over with watercolour.

Crowley takes a swig from the half-empty bottle of wine sitting between them, lets the warmth settle into his bones. “Do you remember,” he says, passing the bottle to Aziraphale, “the seventeenth century?”

Aziraphale drinks from the bottle and Crowley lets himself look his fill, watches the soft line of the angel’s face as he savors the wine. _Would you ever taste me like this (I am unpalatable). Would you ever look at me like this, the way I do. Have you, and I’ve missed it, gone too fast like I always do. Would you do it again, show me this time, make sure I see it. Teach me how to love you slow and careful._

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, “Versailles was unforgettable. Louis held such lavish balls. I had the most wonderful time, especially when you crashed the party.” He gives Crowley a teasing smile. “You had just come back from a temptation in Vienna. The talk of the town, as I recall.”

“Well, it’s not every day a recently widowed marquise joins the king’s court,” Crowley says. He had so enjoyed women’s fashion at the time, but then he thinks about Aziraphale in petticoat breeches and lacy cravats, and he drinks some more wine.

“We had such fun back then,” Aziraphale sighs wistfully. “You, wiling; me, thwarting.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Crowley asks, curious.

“A bit, to be honest,” Aziraphale says, glancing upwards. “Being one of the angels, doing work in Her name. It gave me a sense of purpose… But at the same time, no.” He turns to look at Crowley, considering, and one side of his mouth quirks into a smile. “I don’t think I miss it. I suppose I never really was one of them.” He chuckles, a little too sadly for Crowley’s taste.

“It’s not that bad, once you get used to it,” Crowley offers.

Aziraphale smiles again, a full one this time. “Thank you, my dear.” He brushes his hand over Crowley’s, the barest brush of skin but electric all the same. Crowley’s breath catches in his throat, and he looks away, watching the river flow by.

…

_It’s London, and it’s 1941, and the church is burning and Crowley’s feet are burning and his hand is burning from where it brushed against Aziraphale’s. He stuffs it into his pocket, as if that would make it stop._

_“Lift home?” he says and heads outside and doesn’t look back._

_(If he had, he would have seen the wreckage of the church, the dying embers, the ashen wings of the lectern. And Aziraphale, standing alone, lips parted and breath held like the moment of the first rain, like the morning after the flood, like the evening they saw_ Hamlet. _)_

_Instead, Crowley sits in the Bentley and stares straight ahead through the windshield, through the shade of his glasses. Can’t look back, not like Orpheus, not like Lot’s wife. Don’t you know, you’ll lose it all. Blinders on, can’t risk it. Just keep moving forward._

_He feels more than hears Aziraphale get into the car, and as he reaches to turn on the engine, Aziraphale’s hand lands on his wrist. The angel swallows, as if he’s about to say something but hasn’t quite decided what yet._

_“That was very kind of you” is what he settles on. An echo, but it’s different from before. This one is warmer, more earnest. It curls softly around Crowley’s hand and his heart and it squeezes, gently._

_“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, scarcely more than a breath. Outside, the air raid sirens are still going off and the city is shaking, and Crowley realizes that so is he._

_“Don’t mention it,” he says, and drives, and Aziraphale lets go._

…

It’s drizzling in Amsterdam. The clouds hang heavy over the city, and the sea air nips at their skin as they walk along the canals. Crowley grimaces and burrows deeper into the high collar of his coat.

Beside him, Aziraphale is humming an old waltz, his cheeks warm and rosy. He seems inexplicably pleased for some reason, so Crowley asks. “What are you smiling about, angel?”

“Nothing, my dear,” Aziraphale says lightly. “Just enjoying the weather.”

“The weather’s shit, angel,” Crowley grumbles. “‘M freezing my arse off.”

Aziraphale tsks at his choice of words. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He miracles up a scarf for Crowley, who just stands there dumbly and allows himself to be wrapped in tartan. “Better?”

“Ngk,” Crowley replies, watching Aziraphale bite his lip in concentration as he ties the knot. Aziraphale catches him staring, and he smiles back, and Crowley thinks Aziraphale’s going to pull him in by the scarf or _something._ He wants, oh, how he wants, he is drowning in it. He wants so much that there’s not even enough room for him to take a breath.

But it doesn’t matter, because Aziraphale is taking a step back with a final adjustment to his handiwork. “There you are,” he says softly, patting the end of the scarf where it falls over Crowley’s heart.

Crowley almost leans forward, chasing his touch, before he catches himself. He clears his throat. “Um, thanks.”

And Aziraphale smiles back at him. “Anytime, my dear,” he says, and the feeling that Crowley has spent millenia hiding starts to swell up again, threatens to overflow and spill out of him.

He stops it, of course (he’s had plenty of practice). Some things you can’t take back.

_Don’t go unscrewing the cap._

…

In Bangkok, they drift through the floating market and Aziraphale marvels at the local produce and Crowley marvels at Aziraphale. In Saint Petersburg, Aziraphale catches snowflakes on his tongue and Crowley feels the scant inches between them pulling on him like a magnet. In Tokyo, the lights cast Aziraphale in breathtaking technicolor as they wander through the city and Crowley bites his tongue and says nothing.

And so it goes—from San Francisco to Nairobi to Buenos Aires to Istanbul. Crowley’s been to all of them at some point in time or another, knows them like old friends. Familiar and yet unknown. A world remade.

(He wishes he knew where the Garden was.)

In Rome, Crowley finds that he can’t breathe. It happens when they’re standing in the Forum. Or rather, behind the fence that surrounds what is left of the Forum. 

It’s in ruins now—a piece of masonry here, a fragment of a column there. The most striking thing about it is the emptiness, he thinks. Amazing what two thousand years can do to a city. It seems only yesterday he was sitting there, drowning his sorrows in a bar and being tempted to lunch by an angel in white. A wisp of a bygone era, hourglass sand running through his fingers. Unwritten, unrecorded, unknown except for in his memory. Sometimes it feels as if he dreamed it.

The bar is long gone now, and so is the restaurant where they had oysters, and so is Petronius and everyone else in the city. Yet here he is, an inkblot on the parchment of history, squinting up at the remains of a temple dedicated to a god of time, and it’s so ironic he could almost laugh. That’s the perfect word for it, he thinks, _remains._ After everything has been burned or destroyed or reclaimed, this is all that survives—the remains, the relics, the leftovers.

_After._

His world narrows down to the ground under his feet, terribly shaky and not at all stable. Detached, a lone pillar of earth. On some level, he’s aware of Aziraphale to his right, smiling and absorbed in his own thoughts, but it’s muted, like he’s very far away, and somehow all too much.

Somewhere behind them, a group of tourists walks by. “As you can see,” the guide says, “the Forum is a lot lower than street level. After the fall of the Roman Empire, people moved to different parts of the city and the Forum was mostly abandoned. Over time, they built up and around the ruins, leaving behind this depression in the middle of the city.”

Crowley doesn’t hear the rest. He turns around abruptly, and Aziraphale startles. “Anthony?” he asks, concerned. “Where are you going?”

Crowley flees.

…

_It’s London, and it’s 1967, and Crowley is in Soho clutching a tartan thermos._

_“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go,” he says, and it sounds like begging._

_Aziraphale looks at him, wide-eyed and wanting, and Crowley’s heart leaps into his throat with hoping._

_“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and then leaves, and in the empty car the breath that wrenches out of Crowley sounds more like a sob than an exhale._

…

“What has gotten into you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, following him into the empty square. “Anthony?”

“I just—” Crowley groans, paces some more, and stops in front of Aziraphale. “The Apocalypse. It was here, and then it wasn’t, and that’s the problem!” He gestures wildly. “The world’s just carrying on like normal, like nothing happened. But something did happen, and I can’t pretend it didn’t.”

They’re standing so close now that Aziraphale has to look up to see Crowley’s face. “Then don’t pretend,” he says, and his voice is unbearably gentle.

Crowley feels the vice grip on his heart tighten. He shakes his head and retreats to the fountain in the middle of the piazza, sitting on its edge and watching the water spill over into the basin. He sighs, a little tired, a little broken.

“What do you want from me, angel? What are we doing here? Do you want me to take you places, tempt you to lunch and pay the bill? Because I’ll do it. Do you want me to scare the customers away and get drunk with you in the bookshop? I’ll do that too. Or do you want me to leave, because I’ll—” His voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, Aziraphale is sitting beside him on the fountain.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. His hands fidget for a moment, then still on the marble. “I don’t want you to do anything except stay. But it doesn’t really matter what I want you to do, it matters what you want to do. What do _you_ want, Crowley?”

Crowley thinks, and a sinking feeling begins to set in. It’s familiar, one he remembers well—the feeling he had right before he fell. “That night at my flat,” he says quietly, taking off his sunglasses, “what did you mean?”

Aziraphale squirms. “Well, you asked if I wanted to go somewhere with you, and I said that I’d like to, and now here we are.” He gestures at the piazza around them—the rough stone paving under their feet, the sun filtering through the tree branches overhead, the murmuring water behind them. It’s all so idyllic, perfect, and Crowley doesn’t want to press, doesn’t want to ruin it. Aziraphale gave him an out, he has plausible deniability, they can just go on like they always have but. He has to know.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Aziraphale,” Crowley says gently. “You’re too clever for that.” He takes a breath and looks away. “If you don’t want to, just say the word. I won’t breathe a word of it ever again, I swear.”

“Oh no, that’s not it at all. I—” Aziraphale inhales sharply, and Crowley looks back and there it is, that face, full of wanting. Oh, he’s seen it now, can’t tell himself this isn’t real. “You must know by now, my dear. I should have made it more clear, I’ve thought about it for so long. That night… it was a promise.”

“Angel, you don’t have to,” Crowley says, because this is a kindness he cannot bear.

Aziraphale meets his gaze, steady and true. “I think I do. I want to.”

“It’s not going to be anything like what you’re thinking,” Crowley blurts out. “I—I’m mean, and I’m moody. I yell at my plants, I disappear for days on end. I’ll ruin your bookshop, I’ll snap at you, angel, I’ll—” He swallows, and it tastes like smoke. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale says, taking his hands like they are something precious. “Crowley. I love you. I love you so, dearest, and I'd like to for the rest of time. Will you let me?”

Crowley lets out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

…

_It’s London, and the world hasn’t ended._

_“Will you?” Crowley asks._

_“Yes,” Aziraphale says._

…

They leave Rome. Go back to London.

It’s an unspoken thing. One moment they’re in Rome, and the next they’re in Crowley’s flat, courtesy of a minor angelic miracle. Crowley stumbles a bit on the landing, and Aziraphale steadies him with a hand on his arm.

“Alright?” he asks, and his voice echoes in the flat. Crowley nods mutely.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Let me in, please.”

“Did you mean it?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s brow furrows slightly. “I mean, what you said before. Did you mean it, honestly. Because, because if I start loving you, for real…” Crowley’s voice trails off, and he takes a breath. “I don’t think I’ll know how to stop.”

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale brushes his thumb over Crowley’s cheek, smiling. “I think that makes two of us.”

They fall into each other, Crowley’s face buried in Aziraphale’s neck and Aziraphale’s arms around him, and then Crowley’s hands find their way to Aziraphale’s back and pull him close, until he doesn’t know who’s holding who and it doesn’t matter anyway because

“I love you, I love you, I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ll keep loving you, forever, I swear.”

And it’s an exhale, and it’s wanting and losing and giving and returning. Aziraphale’s lips are on his, kissing him soft and slow, asking, and Crowley answers, pours all of his yearning and doubt and longing and uncertainty into Aziraphale, and Aziraphale takes it all and gives his own back to Crowley.

 _Oh,_ Crowley thinks in a haze, _you too?_ and it should have been so obvious after all this time, but he knows now, knows for sure, and Aziraphale knows too, and it feels like relief. A breathless laugh, the comfort of foreheads and cheeks and fingers, and warm exhales.

It feels like coming home.

…

_It’s the world, and it’s after, and they’re in love, and it’s a promise._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [contradictory-existence](https://contradictory-existence.tumblr.com/)


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